


Amongst the Thorns

by monicawoe



Category: Forever Knight
Genre: Blood Drinking, Case Fic, Flashbacks, Gen, Murder, Poisoning, Police, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 10:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13588077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: It's early February in Toronto, and Nick is tracking a murderer with a penchant for roses.





	Amongst the Thorns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Greer Watson (greerwatson)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts).



> Written for greerwatson for the [Chocolate Box fic exchange on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/ChocolateBox2018/profile)

"The victim had a rose stem in his mouth," Nick said, as he watched Natalie work.

"That explains the cuts on his tongue and palette." Natalie let go of the corpse's jaw and examined his eyes. "Blood analysis shows extremely high chemical concentrations. He died from organophosphate pesticide poisoning."

"Pesticide?" Nick could feel his brow furrowing. “Any connection between the pesticide and the rose?” Nick reviewed the few facts about the case he’d gathered so far. Based on one eye witness report, the killer was likely a caucasian male in his fifties with greying hair. He had no obvious preference in victims, only his method of killing was consistent. He left them asleep in their beds, with a rose somewhere on them. Clasped in their hands, or in their mouths, like in this case. The pesticide was likely consistent too. Nick had requested the toxicology reports from the other three cases, but hadn’t received them yet. "The killer would have to have access to the chemicals, and the flowers, so a gardener, or a florist, maybe."

"And how many florists are there in the city? Three dozen? Four? Are you going to search all of them?"

"The sketch artist's portrait from the eye witness should be here soon, and then we'll—"

“Special delivery, special delivery for a Ms. Natalie Lambert!” Schanke said, coming through the door holding a wrapped bouquet.

Natalie smirked as she looked up from the corpse. “Aw Schanke, you shouldn’t have. Won’t Myra be jealous?”

Schanke winked at her. “Much as I’d love to take credit, these aren’t from me. I uh—intercepted the delivery guy, front desk was swamped so I offered to bring them back here.”

“Thoughtful of you, Schanke, are you feeling okay?” Nick asked.

“Oh har har.” Schanke moved closer to the center of the room, nose wrinkling as he neared the corpse.

Nick had gotten used to the scent of death in this room, but the heavy perfume from the roses was overwhelming even before Natalie started unwrapping the paper and plastic layers surrounding the flowers. She stuck them in a vase by the sink and smiled as she pulled out the small pink card stuck between the stems.

“Who are they from?” Nick asked, despite himself.

Natalie’s cheeks flushed and she tucked the card into her jacket pocket. “Somebody who might very well get a fourth date.”

“Fourth?” Schanke cocked an eyebrow. “Stop the presses. Or no wait—start the presses! We need to send out wedding invitations, don’t we?”

Natalie laughed, and rearranged the stems in the vase. “Not quite yet, wait until we get to date number ten.”

“People can date that often without committing for life?” Schanke scratched his nose. “Why wasn’t I informed of this?”

“Ow,” Natalie pulled her thumb away from the thorn she’d pricked it on, and brought it to her mouth, sucking away the drop of blood.

But that one drop of red had caught Nick’s eye. He could feel his fangs begin to extend, felt the hunger coiling low in his gut. “I have to go,” he said, fleeing through the door.

“What’s his problem?” Schanke scoffed, crossing the room.

“Oh, you know Nick,” Natalie said, turning back to the corpse at hand. 

#

The Raven’s early guests had begun trickling in, but it was still fairly quiet, the music turned down low. Janette set a slim vase in front of Nick, by way of greeting.

“A lovely color,” Nick said, admiring the petals. The bottom of the rose was bright red, and the shade darkened to a nearly black purple at the outer edges.

“Reine des Violettes,” Janette said, her lips curving as she pulled a bottle from the shelf behind her and poured a glass for herself. “Sold by only one florist in this city—Maison de Fleurs. A lovely shade, yes, and the guests adore it, but it’s one of my least favorite.”

“Why is that?” Nick asked, watching Janette drink from her cup, her throat working as it swallowed. He imagined he could see the blood working its way into her capillaries, flushing her skin with its stolen life.

Janette plucked the rose from its slim black vase and held the stem out to Nick. “See for yourself?”

“The thorns are missing,” Nick said, studying the stem. “No knife marks. They were never there to begin with.”

“The thorns have been bred out of this particular bloom. A cruel act, robbing the plant of its only defenses.”

“And their beauty only makes them more vulnerable,” LaCroix said, stepping up behind Nick. He took Janette’s wrist and pressed his lips softly against the back of her hand. “You look ravishing, as always,” LaCroix said, and Nick remembered him speaking those same words more than three hundred years ago.

_“You look ravishing, as always,” LaCroix said, bowing deeply._

Janette curtseyed, the ostentatious skirts of her gown pooling wide around her. Her hair was piled high on her head, held in place with a large, needlepoint hairpin decorated with raven feathers.

“Might I have this dance?” LaCroix asked, offering his arm.

Janette accepted and gave Nick a wink.

Nick for his part, stayed on the edges of the grand ballroom, watching the hypnotic whirlwind of finery before him.

“It’s dreadfully boring, isn’t it?” a woman beside him asked. The opulence of the jewels around her throat and the slim band of metal crowning her rich auburn hair made it clear she was nobility.

“Apologies, my lady, with whom do I have the honor?”

“I am Sophia, the Comtesse de Monteil, lady of this house.”

“Nicholas de Brabant,” he said, bowing, eyes never leaving hers.

“A pleasure, Nicholas, but I care not who you are. Only whether or not you can find it within you to make my evening less dull.” She held out her arm.

Nick, pleasantly surprised, took her hand and led her out onto the floor.

#

The dance continued for what seemed like hours, and Nick felt his heart lighten more with each new melody.

The comtesse seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself now, delighting in the revelry, her head flung back exposing her long, slender neck.

Nick ignored the rush of longing and the desire to bite down, scanning the crowd until he found LaCroix and Janette with a man as gaudily dressed as the comtesse. The patterns of his tailcoat were in fact so similar, that he could only be the comtesse’s brother, Jacques.

“Sister!” Jacques exclaimed, when he caught sight of her. He pulled Janette and LaCroix with him and came to a stop in front of Sophia and Nick.

“And who is this fine gentleman?”

Nick bowed. “An honored guest.”

Jacques scoffed. “Well, don’t let me keep you from your honored guest, Sophia.” He looked from Janette to LaCroix. “Shall we go on that grand tour now?”

“That would be...delightful,” Janette said, and the lilt in her voice made it clear what type of delights she was hinting at.

LaCroix chuckled low and led the two away, disappearing in the crowd.

Sophia turned to Nick with a sigh. “My brother has given so many tours. Though he’d never admit it, these noisy affairs bore him as much as they do me.”

Nick considered his response. “Would you like a change of scenery, perhaps? Someplace more quiet. I've heard of your impressive gardens.”

“A fine idea,” she said, smiling.

#

Sophia walked ahead of Nick, weaving around the turns of the hedge maze with practiced ease, her skirts brushing against the patterned rock beneath their feet. She rounded a corner and stopped dead in her tracks. Nick walked up behind her, and picked up the scent a moment too late—the scent of blood mixed in with the heavy perfume of roses. The haze of hunger again began to cloud his vision and his thoughts as he saw what Sophia was looking at: Jacques laying on a marble bench, his head resting in Janette’s lap, his arm draped out behind him, held by LaCroix, whose mouth was latched firmly on his wrist.

Janette smiled, with bloodied fangs. “Nicholas, how nice of you to join us.” Her gaze shifted to Sophia, predatory. “And you brought the second course.”

Nick saw Sophia’s shoulders tense, and he stepped closer, ready to quiet her inevitable scream of terror. But it never came.

Instead, Sophia let out a breath of what sounded like relief, and walked to the bench, fearless. She held her hand out to LaCroix. “Thank you, sir, for doing as I asked. You shall have your promised reward.”

LaCroix kissed the back of her hand and smiled up at her, the tips of his fangs showing. “Your brother’s death does not constitute acceptance of your terms, my lady.”

Sophia paled. “But I-I thought we had an understanding.”

“What was your...understanding?” Janette asked, chuckling.

“That you would feast on my brother, kill him,” Sophia swallowed before continuing, “I would give you the portraits you so admired in our gallery, and in exchange you would give me your gift—make me like you.”

LaCroix stood. “And as I told you a fortnight ago, my kind cannot be bought.” He stepped closer to her. “But you see, Janette so wanted to attend this ball.”

Janette incline her head. “Thank you again for the invitation, comtesse.”

The comtesse took a step back from LaCroix “You will not feast on me, sir.”

“I have no intention of repaying your hospitality in that fashion. However, I will do now what I should have done when we last met.” He glided closer, and said, voice thrumming with power, “You came out here to the hedge maze, alone, and found your brother dead. You will be appropriately alarmed and react accordingly. Your brother will be mourned. You will not remember me, or my companions, or anything about our true nature.”

The comtesse stood rooted to the spot, swaying slightly on her feet as LaCroix’s suggestion overrode her thoughts.

#

“They found another one,” Schanke said, pulling Nick's mind back to the present

Nick blinked at him, found he needed a moment to think and speak in English again. “Where?”

#

The woman’s body was laid out carefully, in the alleyway between the two buildings; she was clasping a rose between her hands.

“The other victims were all found in there beds, weren’t they?” Nick asked as he crouched down to get a closer look.

“Yup.” Schanke sighed. “Guess that wasn’t flashy enough for our killer anymore.”

Nick smelled the congealing blood before he saw it—a thin trail dripping out between the woman’s palms. “Strange,” he said, wondering out loud as he studied the rose’s petals.

“What about this case isn’t strange?” Schanke scoffed.

“This is a Reine des Violettes."

“A what now?”

“A thornless rose.” Somebody had switched out the rose. Very recently.

“And?”

Nick stood. “There only one florist in the city that sells them.”

#

Though Maison de Fleurs was closed, there were lights on in the rear of the store when Nick and Schanke arrived. The door was locked, but Nick got it open easily enough. He closed his eyes, listening for signs up life—rapid, panicked heartbeats or shallow breathing, but he heard nothing beyond the sounds of Schanke and the other officers.

"Lights on, but nobody's home," Schanke said, disappointed.

Nick walked further in, towards the counter in the back. It was covered with bits of flower stems, leaves, and rolls of wrapping paper, and in the center of the debris was a greeting card. Nick slipped on a glove and picked up the card. The front was blank, completely unmarked. It was heavy stock, cream colored, and inside someone had written in calligraphy, "I never did thank you for the dance."

Schanke's wireless crackled, and a voice said, _"Movement on the roof."_

The other officers started rushing out of the shop, Nick tucked the card in his pocket, turned to Schanke, and said, "I'm gonna check out the back."

Schanke nodded in agreement and followed the other officers out the front.

The shop's backdoor led out into a small courtyard between the buildings. Nick glanced around, making sure the coast was clear and flew up. He landed silently, and saw a flicker of movement just behind the water tower.

He flew forwards, nearly colliding with LaCroix, who stepped in his path.

A man in his fifties, wearing a florist's apron, was unconscious, lying on the roof.

"What are you doing?" Nick asked LaCroix. "You never interfere in—what was it—petty human affairs."

“Oh it wasn’t me. I found him like this.” LaCroix sounded earnest enough that Nick almost believed him.

Nick walked to the unconscious man, and brought out his cuffs. He could explain it away easily. He’d chased the suspect, he’d resisted, there’d been a scuffle and now he was unconscious. "Then why _are_ you here?"

"Did you find the card she left for you?"

Nick stiffened. "Yes."

LaCroix walked up beside Nick and looked down at the man. "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, the bard says. And this rose's name was Sophia."

Nick turned to ask him. "How is that possible?"

But LaCroix was already gone, and all Nick could see was the clear night sky.


End file.
